The salt of sailing bruises the blood
And infects the ordinary with wonder.
It may be only swill
But it quenches well enough.
We take stock of barriers, boundaries,
But it’s the continuants that carry meaning
Through years, around days, hours.
A life seems to grow more tail as it winds slowly,
Hauntingly, toward oblivion,
Or so it seems.
This meander, this immense detour
Charts what passes between us,
So ephemeral, wight-like
Those threads of love grow thin,
But strong as spider silk.